Sing Sweet Nightingale
by LunaMarr
Summary: The Music Meister is in Arkham, the Batman is on the hunt, and the Black Canary isn't interested. What happens when the Meister learns of a new bird, a Nightingale gifted with the power of song, and decides *he's* interested? Music MeisterXOC A tribute to childhood memories.
1. Prologue

Faces stared down at him, white surgical masks hiding their mugs as he was wheeled through a hallway.

Breaking out of Blackgate hadn't been as difficult as he thought it would be; they had underestimated him. _They always did._

He noticed halfheartedly the plugs placed snuggly in the doctor's ears, the insignia of the batman covering the outside. **Great. **_He___was helping them now too.

He hadn't even been there long enough to attend his court hearing, and within days of his escape he was fully equipped and holding the mayor at ransom.

The doctors were scrubbing up, reappearing with caps, gloves, and aprons that gave them an otherworldly appearance.

_Stupid, idiotic, tone-deaf Bat…_his second time in Blackgate had been even shorter than the first, except this time there was no hearing. They came into his cell, dragging his already broken body into an armored truck to ship to Arkham. _He was a danger to society and himself, his_ **obsession** _with music too unhealthy. Imbeciles. Did they realize the power that music held? The ability to speak to all cultures, in every language to…_**hey**.

He felt that, damn it, he felt that! _**What were they doing?! **_He tried to raise his head, but only accomplished a feeble shake. What had they done? His vision was blurring at the edges, and he managed to see one of the doctors lift a needle into view. _Ohhhh no. NoNONONONONON__**NO**__. _He did **not** want this, what were they doing?! He managed to turn his head and a steel tray immediately came into view, an assortment of metal tools and an oddly shaped piece of metal coming into focus. He squinted-the fact that he didn't have his glasses didn't help either-and the object seemed to stretch away but manage to grow more visible at the same time. It looked like a metal collar of sorts, save for a single piece of fragile machinery that stuck from the center that he probably could've have broken with the brush of his fingers. He tried to frown but the action became lost somewhere before it could reach his lips. The world was growing dark, and the Music Meister was about to learn what it was to be mute.

~O~

So that's the beginning, more of a prologue than an actual chapter, future chapters will be **much **longer.

Never thought I would be doing a fanfic for the Music Meister but a recent delve into my childhood has suddenly left me with the urge. Next chapter will introduce our Nightingale.


	2. Viette and Jones Lounge and Bar

_Lillith Melody Arpeggiare_

_~Featured Pianist~_

That's what the tag said. She was famous throughout Gotham, the graceful Miss Arpeggiare, a musical prodigy in her own right. Or at least, that's who she was at work. _Vietti and Jones Lounge and Bar_, a filthy rat hole that tried to pass itself off as respectable joint by having live music and revolving stools. _Nice._ This wasn't were she imagined herself as a child, no when people asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she told them. _A singer._ Music was her life and blood, her blessing and distraction, a safe haven from the ones who hurt her, a place away from…_home. _Money didn't matter then, she would do what she wanted to do and be happy and that would be enough, everything would turn out okay and she would have a good life.

Then she grew up.

A degree in music doesn't get you far in life, music doesn't pay the bills nor does it put food on your plate. So Lillith found herself where she was now, sitting in a dark, filthy bar playing piano while drunkards and bar scum ogled her from afar. No, this defiantly wasn't how she imagined her life.

When the amount of patrons had dwindled into nothing and her boss, a large, overweight man that smelled faintly of peanut butter, began to clean up she ceased her playing, giving her fingers a good shake before rising from her stool. Taking a moment to adjust her dress, (it tended to rise up when she sat revealing more leg than she would've liked) and run a tired hand through her hair, she plodded down the worn steps from the miniature stage and proceeded straight to her tip jar. It was nothing more than an old pickle jar, a money sized hole punched into the top. Unscrewing the top she dipped her hand in and began counting out her earnings.

"24…25…26. 26." She turned on her heel angrily, eyeing the squat man as he dumped the filth from the tables into a dish basin, a busboy being one of his many jobs in the 'Lounge and Bar.' He turned to her slightly, one hand reaching to his backside to pull up his pants, thankfully saving her from a view she would not survive intact.

"Eh?"

"There's only twenty-six dollars, you promised me forty-five. That's barely half." She growled.

He sputtered in annoyance, a greasy fist wiping away some of the sweat that was forming on his balding head.

"You get what ya get. That's including tip, which yer lucky I let ya have that." He continued to the bar, dishpan in hand and dumped the contents into the sink, a rusty faucet bathing the glasses in icy water.

"What?! I played perfectly, you can't deduct my pay for no reason!" she argued, she pulled on her coat and followed him around the bar awaiting an explanation.

"Yeh and ya also said that the customers would be pouring in. Maybe if you dressed better for the occason'…" His eyes drifted down to her dress, and Lillith pulled her coat closed. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at the man before grabbing her purse from under the bar and stomping out heatedly. She trudged down First Avenue, making sure to stay under the façade of safety the streetlights offered. She somehow managed to make it to her apartment in one piece, and as quietly as possible continued straight up the stairs to the upper floor.

"You're down 78." Smitty's voice echoed up from the front office, a small closet like space with a window that looked out to the foyer. There was even a tin bell and a sign in sheet. Putting on as charming as a smile as possible she turned on her heel and peered down at the Italian.

"Aw come on Smitt, you know I'm good for it. I'll get it paid, I swear." She even grinned to be more convincing but was disappointed when his face remained deadpanned.

"Don't pull that crap with me, hon. either you get me the rent this month or you're out on the street, capisce?" Lillith glowered but gave him an understanding nod and continued upstairs feeling sick. She had a total of thirty dollars or so saved that was meant for food, and hopefully if she was careful she could squeeze fifteen dollars or so if she ate in small portions…Oh why did she even bother. Even if she somehow acquired enough money to pay rent she would be doing the same thing next month, trying to make up the difference by squeezing it out of everything else. She slid her key-yes her apartment still used keys-into the lock and opened the door, relinquishing the feeling of being alone. Eyeing her surroundings she considered what she could afford to sell, the table (who needed tables? The Indians didn't use tables and they got on just fine) the couch was long gone along with the coffee table, book shelf, and pictures. The bed was still in good condition; however she found herself clinging to the item childishly, the idea of a good night's sleep outweighing her desperation. She'd find _something._ There was always something. What little jewelry she had had had been first to go, along with the majority of her clothing. When she found herself in need of clothing she went to the pawn shop or a vintage store, admiring the clothing that was within her price range. Now it looked like some of it would have to go. Shaking her hair loose of its curls she pulled off her coat and collapsed in a rickety old kitchen chair, flicking on her pathetic excuse for a television. It had come with the apartment and though it only had a handful of channels she found that news in Gotham was extremely helpful, you never know when some wacko had escaped Blackgate, or worse Arkham. What played across the flickering screen caught her attention immediately however and she found herself jerking upright, her face dangerously close to the small screen.

"The Music Meister has been apprehended by Batman. We are currently awaiting a statement from the mayor, it is unknown if…"

Lillith frowned at the small picture that appeared; a man clothed completely in a music themed suit with thick red hair, and felt a pang of pity. He didn't look like a criminal, more like someone out of a Broadway show; of course Jervis Tetch didn't look like a man capable of hypnotizing hundreds of people and forcing them to live out his twisted version of Wonderland either.

"It is said the Music Meister used his talent at…_singing?_ Yes, singing to escape Blackgate Penitentiary, it is recommended that families take the time to buy ear plugs, or Wayne Enterprises new high frequency noise cancellers in order to prevent future mishaps…"

Lillith felt her jaw drop with surprise, and leaning back in her chair tuned out the sounds of the television. Singing? There were some pretty interestingly themed rogues throughout Gotham, but music? She had never heard of such a thing. How could you do anything even close to villainy with music?

"…able to sing at an incredibly high frequency, the Music Meister is able to put his victims in a hypnotic trance, during this reverie it is said people are unable to control their actions, completely at the whim of the Music Meister…"

Not even bothering to turn off the TV, Lillith walked to her apartment's bathroom in a stupor, peeling off her clothes as she went. She turned the faucet 180 degrees so the dial stood directly on the H. It was the only way to get decently warm water. Letting the water run down her face, Lillith let her thoughts run rampant.

_Surely if he can do so can you…How high does one have to sing? How will I keep from getting caught? What if the Batman…_she froze.

The Batman. He wouldn't let her off the hook if he caught her, and considering even the Joker himself couldn't keep out of Arkham she doubted she would last long. Where did they go wrong? What did they all have in common?

Grabbing the shampoo bottle she poured a dime size into her palm and massaged it through her hair, her actions sluggish.

Flamboyancy? They were all rather big in their crimes, save a handful. You didn't see Catwoman making a big spectacle of herself; she got in got out and was gone. Simple as that. Maybe that's why she always seemed to evade the bat…or maybe she was just sleeping with him. Lillith doubted she was willing to go that far.

Gripping her near empty conditioner she squeezed a quarter onto her hand and rubbed it through her hair. She frowned in thought.

_No. She wasn't a criminal, a bad person. She might need the money but that didn't mean she had to turn to villainy to get it._

With a sigh she turned the faucet off, rubbing her eyes as she pulled a towel around her torso. Tucking it into place she shook her hair, trying to ring out the majority of the water.

"_Goodnight Lillith. Remember, tomorrow will be better…"_

~O~

Little Trivia Fact: Vietti and Jones Lounge and Bar is a takeoff of the names Ben Jones and

Brandon Vietti, two of the three creators of the Music Meister. (Michael Chang being the third.)

No offense is meant by the fact it's a rat hole, I just figured that Lillith wouldn't have the best place of work. Oh and while I'm at it I do not own batman or MM, just Lillith, OC's, and the plot. **Reviews are appreciated** but unnecessary.


	3. Metronome

The Music Meister awoke to silence, and his eyes welcomed the darkness that enveloped him. It must've been nighttime already, for it was already evening when they came and fetched him. As his eyes adjusted he sat up slowly, painfully aware of the soreness in his bruised muscles. His head was delightfully fuzzy and his hand reached up absentmindedly to scratch an itch on his throat. His fingertips met cold metal. He recoiled and released a yelp of surprise, _or what should have been a yelp. _No sound had escaped his lips. Panic began to form in his stomach, and testily he opened his mouth to release a C note. Straining his ears for any noise whatsoever, he held the note until his lungs ached for air and his throat began to burn and tickle. All that came out was a silent _whoosh_ of air. His mouth opened and closed again and again, unable to create any sound whatsoever. Leaning his head against the wall he brought his knees up to his chin, now able to see he was sitting in a cell.

In Arkham.

His fingers fumbled with the coarse fabric of the uniform he wore, trying to remember what had happened prior to his current situation. He could remember being taken into Arkham, bright lights, and gleaming tools.

His fingers went to his neck tentatively, feeling the cold contraption clamped around his throat. As gently as possible he explored it, running his fingers across it the same way he would a piano. The gentleness quickly turned into fury as he realized there was seemingly no way of taking the collar off. The urge to itch his neck was unbearable, it was like having a parasite or insect burrowed into his skin, and then cold realization claimed him.

The collar. The same he has seen when they had taken him into emergency operation. With those little metal tendrils. For the first time since childhood he felt a surge of despair, the kind that would make most people cry. He was not such a person. Naturally, he would take out his anger on whatever it was that had caused it, but he could not risk hurting his precious singing voice. He released a note the best he could, and though it was silent he refocused his attention on the mere vibrations. There were none. His mind easily put two and two together and he snorted. The easiest way to keep him silent was to stop him from making noise period. A muzzle of sorts.

_How degrading._

Puckering his lips he let out a whoosh of air and to his joy managed a shrill whistle. He perfected it quickly, the once irksome gap in his teeth now being quite suitable for such work.

He whistled.

_Why is it so quiet?_

He whistled.

_What are the other inmates doing?_

He whistled.

_How can anyone sleep in this silence?_

He whistled.

Fatigue was setting in much to his horror and he bolted up in panic (much to his bodies distress!) and strained his ears for a noise. Any noise. There had to be something, _there was always something!_

_It couldn't possibly be just him in here_-

_Drip._

His ears pricked at the sound.

_Drip._

Ah. That was better.

_Drip._

He settled back down onto his cot.

_Drip._

His eyelids shut.

_Drip._

"_Funny,"_ he though tiredly, "_that little drip should be maddening_." And yet he found himself sighing in relief. It was even, even like a metronome.

One beat, rest. One beat, rest…

_I have to get out of here._

_~O~_

Why are these so short? ':I Anyway I realized that I would have to give the Music Meister a name (which I abhor doing to a Cannon Character, but sadly he cannot simply be Music Meister or MM for this whole story.) and decided with **Alexzander Ceol Miehster.** Why? I was thinking along the lines of **Alexzander** the Great (Perhaps he went by Zander as a child) then **Ceol** (He is a redhead after all) which means music in Celtic/Gaelic and **Miehster **because it sounds like "Meister." So all in all, **Alexzander the Great Music Miehster. **Yes, No, Maybe? I'm also going to have to make up some things since they don't go into his back story very much, :/ but I do not plan on changing anything about him so don't worry. :) I prefer to keep cannon characters in-character.


	4. Folly and Madness

If Arkham was anywhere near as loud at night as it was in the morning, than the Music Meister would have had no trouble sleeping. Rowdy men shouted and beat against the walls, cursing and screaming their innocence, while some attempted to carry out half intelligible conversations across the hall and others remained still in their cot, clicking their nails against the wall or humming softly in drugged, weary states. The Meister awoke to the ruckus with a smile, remaining in his cot and with closed eyes revering the heavy noise as it filtered through his ears. It was no work for him to turn the uproar into a symphony of beats, closed fists turning into the backbone of a drum, and even the softness of shuffling feat became the vibrating thrum of a violin. Sweet, delicious music that sent a shiver through his very bones.

It was the music _of madness_.

And he couldn't have been happier to accept it.

An obnoxious buzz woke him from his reverie, and as carefully as possible without jarring any broken bones he stood from his cot, ambling towards the glass of his cell and leaning against it with a bored expression. He cringed as he ran a hand through his hair, feeling it slick with oil and dirt. It'd been almost four days since his last shower, and three since his last meal. Not his fault, you didn't exactly walk into any old restaurant when you're a wanted criminal, and taking the time to shower wasn't on his list of priorities at the time. He'd just have to deal with it. He withheld his interest as he watched a large group of patients, fifty or so, shuffle into the hall and from there into their personal cells. Their zombie-like cooperativeness surprised him, and vaguely he wondered if they were all under the effects of the same medication. Everyone in Gotham knew Arkham used meds to keep their patients in check; it was only a matter of figuring out how they managed to enforce said prescription. The guards did a quick walkthrough to make sure everyone was situated before the glass slide into place and caged them in.

The Music Meister jumped back in surprise when his own cell's glass wall slide open, (an act he quickly regretted when he felt several bones _pop_.) and walked into the hall slowly, watching as other patients shuffled from their rooms dully. So this was routine. He limped down the hall, wishing he could ask someone where exactly they were heading. He slid into the group with ease, and taking in his fellow offenders he recoiled with disgust. The majority looked like they had been shoved through a blender on mince, their skin was covered in a rainbow of bruises, green, blues, and purples, and even more were bandaged and wearing slings. He snorted when he realized he probably didn't look any better.

_Tone deaf bat, it was all his fault._

He followed the group through several hallways until they reached two steel doors. Two guards settled on either side of the door and held the doors wide open, a large billow of steam meeting his face. The men shuffled in and grumbled as they approached several open shelves and began to strip.

It was the Arkham showers.

Meister gaped in horror as he was pushed into the room, and quickly relocated to a green shelf in the furthest corner.

_Surely they didn't expect him to expose himself to these…miscreants?! How dare they-!_

He gritted his teeth and watched in annoyance as the men continued to undress, reaching into their shelves and grabbing grimy towels and a bar of soap wrapped in wax paper. He turned away so as to preserve his eyesight and gripped the edges of his shelf in a steel grip. He hadn't undressed in front of another person since his days in school…and he certainly didn't want to repeat the offence.

So with great annoyance, he approached one of the sinks aligning the wall, careful to keep his eyes straight ahead and rolled up his sleeves. It was then that he noticed that his signature gloves-a soft white velvet pair- were missing. He felt a surge of panic and for several moments he could only scowl at the soft appendages, as if the shear might of his anger might somehow poof the gloves back into their proper place. His fingers, long, straight and graceful, were virtually perfect for any instrument. It wasn't his fingers he stared at now though, but the scars, long white crisscrosses like tiny serpents that marred the otherwise light skin. His fists closed and he could feel the fangs of his nails, digging into his palm in white-hot anger. Venomous ire cursed through his body and it wasn't until he realized he was shaking that he stopped himself.

_Not here._

With great patience, he delicately pulled back the rest of his sleeve, and humming Beethoven's fifth in C minor in his head, began to light scrub away the dirt and blood that had collected on his arm. Careful of his right wrist, (which appeared red and swollen compared with his usual complexion) he rinsed the filth down the drain and began to work on his hair. Scooping up a cupful of water at a time he worked the crust from his hair, working his fingers into his scalp until his pate felt sore. There were no mirrors present in the room, so he contented himself with simply shoving the thick ginger locks back and leaving it at that.

Despite being _incredibly_ handsome, (If he did think so himself) he doubted there was much he could do to improve his appearance at the moment, especially if the kaleidoscope of heliotropic colors on his arm was any measure of what his face might look like. A super model might look amazing, but one bad makeup job could completely spoil their perfection. Such was his dilemma. (Except makeup and bone deep bruising were two completely different things, but no matter.)

Once he was sure he was thoroughly clean, he proceeded to drying himself and the like, zoning as an orchestra of noise continued around him. He decided that it was probably safe to look around now, so turning on his foot he inwardly yelped in surprise at the sight of a small man behind him.

Despite his poor vision he managed to see him clearly enough to take in his disturbing appearance. Wispy white-grey hair stood out everywhere, making it appear that he had been electrocuted. A pair of crooked silver rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his mouth, so tiny it belonged on a child, hung open at the corner and was void of emotion. The most peculiar thing of all (and what had caused the most surprise) was a portentous looking puppet, its face painted on a chipped piece of wood that looked like it belonged in a wood chipper. The eyes however, a pair of two-dimensional black slates held more emotion than that of the Ventriloquist, leading to the impression that the gentleman with the grey lifeless eyes was more of a puppet than the little wooden man. It was probably one of the more queer things he had seen.

"_Eh dummy_, yah done usin' that sink or yah jus gonna stand there gapin' like an idiot!?" The Meister felt his jaw drop in sick surprise when the puppet, not the man spoke, the ventriloquist's lips showing no sign of even twitching.

"What? Never seen a suave handsome man like myself befo'? Now move ovah' before I move yah myself, _dummy!_" Quickly closing his mouth, his nodded, stepping out of the way for the wooden man and his tiny friend. He didn't know if he should feel embarrassed or disturbed that a puppet would need to use the sink in the first place. He retreated to his shelf quickly, feeling a bit like a dog with its tail between its legs. It was downright degrading. He was getting pushed around by a bloody doll! He peered at the door and could see the guards watching him, eyebrows raised. Even the guards thought he looked weak. If he didn't have a collar around his throat he would've done something, didn't they know that? He was the Music Meister! He had had all of Gotham in his grasp and now he was being looked at like some kind of fool! A wannabe! He decided quickly that whenever his escape should take place (and it had better be soon) he would take care of the guards personally, perhaps if he had time the Puppeteer as well, but in all honesty he had a feeling that there was already something _very_ wrong in the man's head, and no musical triumph no matter how hypnotic would reach those deaf ears. Wood for brains and brains for wood so to speak.

He leaned back against his shelf, wishing he could work the kinks from his neck. Everyone in the shower was beginning to finish up; he could hear the water switching off one by one, men shuffling out with towels wrapped around themselves. He closed his eyes cautiously, resting his mind. He was so tired; all he wanted was to sleep. Just a wink.

~O~

Wow! 300 views?! Good Lord you people are amazing ;)

**heroes-rule-villians-are-cool**: Thanks, I'm glad you like it! :3

**shiver14**: Thanks so much! I really needed a little push to get through this chapter haha, if it's a bit boring I apologize, we haven't quite gotten to the action yet. Thanks for the critique, I'll watch out for the auto check! :)

**Reviews=faster updates**. I can't make you review, but you have no idea how much it helps to know if the people reading this actually like it. I'm defiantly not the best writer but with a little feedback I can really improve!


	5. The Stuff of Nightmares

**HOLYCOW! 400 VIEWS?! THANKSALLYOUPEOPLE!**

~o~

It was dark and warm. Lillith squirmed uncomfortably in her sheets, straining her ears for any noise. It was a small apartment, she could hear all the way out to the kitchen. She had the worn quilt that covered her bed pulled over her head, encasing her in a tiny shield of protection. She felt so…_small. _Shouldn't she be bigger? No, she'd always been small, and tonight was no different. She tightened herself into a ball, shivering despite the warmth. She clutched her arms tightly around her pillow, squeezing it as if it was a life line and she was drowning in a fiery ocean. Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of a door being opened, the door to the apartment. It creaked open slowly, and she heard the drunken plodding of heavy boots. Her hands tightened into fists. The echo of shoes being tugged off and dropped back to the ground reached her ears. She felt her eyes begin to tear.

_Pleasepleasepleaseplease…._

The wood floor cried out as the heavyset feet continued into the apartment, stopping as they reached the living room. She waited. There was a sigh released from the living room chair and the sound of the television being flicked on. She let out a sigh of relief, relaxing enough to uncurl out of her tight position.

_He's just going to watch TV; it's going to be alright. _She silently thought to herself, maybe if she was quiet, she could sing herself to sleep. Just like when mother was-**CREAK.**

She stiffened, alerted, and the sound of weight shifting off the chair in the living room made her want to scream. She held her breath, trying to calm her breathing as the steps proceeded slowly down the hall, lacking the regularity a sober gait would've carried.

_Please, not tonight._

She forced herself to relax, closing her eyes and forcing her breathing into deep rhythmic allocations. She felt a tear escape the safety of her lashes. Maybe she could trick him, make him think she was asleep. She heard her bedroom door gently being prodded open, and he entered her room. If she peeked her eyes open she could've seen his shadow, large and intimidating, basking across her comforter. She felt the vibrations of his feet approaching her bed, and a hand swept the blanket from her cushioned head, so gently it could've been mistaken as the hand of a lover, a friend. But she knew better. She knew the malice that hand held. He released a breath and she could smell the bourbon on his tongue as the warm air caressed her face. His hand swept through her hair-was it shorter than usual?- and continued its path down her cheek, sweeping the tear from the edge of her chin. He leaned in close, so close that the smell of whiskey made her want to choke, and whispered cruelly:

"**I know you're awake**_. Goodnight Lillith. Remember, tomorrow will be better_…"

She screamed.

Lillith jolted upright in her bed, her hair falling into her face and sticking to her wet cheeks. She took a hurried glance around the darkened room before wiping the tears that stained her cheeks. The alarm clock next to her bed read **3:46 am**. She quivered, pulling her blanket up to her chest. Oh how she hated _him._ That brute, that _dream ruiner._ She ran her hand through her now long hair, her palms sweaty. She hated him; more than she thought was possible. _She hated him enough that it scared her._

_Her Daddy._

~O~

"Uggghh…" Lillith rubbed her eyes, trying to work the tiredness from her body. She'd hadn't been able to sleep after her nightmare, and consequently ended up lying in bed until 5. Now she leaned against her kitchen counter, eating a bowl of rubbery macaroni in one hand, browsing a newspaper with the other. She needed another job, and soon. She usually could find temporary jobs, the kind that lasted for a week or, if she was lucky, paid a-hundred or so in one sitting. "_Pianist needed for Promotion Party." _Stuff like that. Jones Bar was the only solid job she had and it wasn't always guaranteed that she'd be paid. She stuffed the cheesy substance into her mouth as she scanned the job section, taking a moment to adjust her pajama shirt. She frowned. Shouldn't she be married by now? Shouldn't she have a reason to wear nice pajamas? Nonsense, she was just feeling a bit lonely, she didn't have time for a relationship right now. Maybe she should get a pet fish if it got bad enough. She stuck the spoon in her mouth and took a pen from the counter, eyeing the list of job offers. Musicians were fairly popular in the richer areas of Gotham, and if she was lucky she could find some bored rich person in need of entertainment. Finished with her breakfast she laid the bowl in the sink, content to do the dishes later. The job section in the Gotham Times was several pages long, so she decided to finish going through it after a good shower. Maybe it would help wake her up before she had to go to work this afternoon.

~O~

The sound of the doors being slammed roused the Meister from his dozing, and he saw that the men had finished their showering. He stood shakily, shuffling with the group outside the door and fighting the urge to cough. His throat felt unbearably dry, and he suddenly wished he had stopped to drink some of the icy water from the sink. Then again he had no idea what kind of fungi was growing in the Arkham plumbing. The group was herded by guards welding nightsticks and tranquilizers, their grim faces giving him the feeling that they were being sent to their deaths. Without his voice he found the topic startlingly likely. If anyone decided to mess with him, he'd have little chance in this shape. The group reached another set of doors, and despite being fairly tall the Music Meister had to crane his neck in order to see over the herd of patients. He quickly ceased this motion however when the intrusion in his neck began to twitch and claw his throat. The idea that this machine was ruining his voice scared him more than anything ever had, including the Batman. He hadn't done anything that warranted the possibility of being mute had he? Sure, a few kidnappings, some ransom, holding the city under a hypnotic trance, but that wasn't worth such punishment was it? The Joker blew up half the city and all he got was a spanking and a one way trip back to Arkham! Apparently the Batman played favorites. The group shuffled into a large room, and to his surprise it was a cafeteria. He hadn't been expecting to get feed that morning. The men quickly formed a single file, a few more…muscular men pushing their ways to the front. As they marched in he took in his surroundings, inwardly annoyed at the amount of security that had been put into the room.

Cameras scanned from the high vaulted ceilings, the entire room looking perhaps three stories tall. Around twenty feet up a catwalk encircled the room, guards standing at the ready with heavy duty tranquilizers. There were no windows to speak of and the only sources of light were the standard fluorescents at the ceiling, and these too were covered in cage like bars to keep anything (or anyone) from shattering them. The only way he could see someone reaching the lights in the first place was if they had a good throwing arm. Or singing voice. He recalled the Black Canary's shrill scream and snorted. She was so beautiful, so perfect. He couldn't fathom why she had chosen that song thief over him, but she had, and he wasn't about to beg for someone who couldn't appreciate his ability. There were other fish in the sea as they said, although in this case 'birds' seemed more fitting.

"_Everyone's a critic."_ He though dryly.

The 'lunch line' consisted of a long slit against the metal walls, whence promptly came a hand and a ladle full of slop. He paused to sniff the orangey substance and frowned. It was the indecipherable smell of once frozen long gone bad food. _Wonderful._

They continued down the line, and he wondered how the others knew when to stop in order to receive some new multicolored glob. He fought to catch a glance into the slit but was unable to see anything other than the shiny reflection of a metal pot. Several times a hand wielding a ladle appeared directly in his line of vision, and unable to say no, a new pile of mush appeared on his tray. _Even more Wonderful._ Once he had a small trash heap the color of mud on his plate he exited the main line and followed the group to an even smaller one. More Styrofoam. He glowered as he selected a spoon, wondering how on earth something as flimsy as Styrofoam would handle such a monstrously thick pile of 'food.' He could understand however, no doubt someone had at some point snuck a plastic utensil out and lost the privilege for everyone. He could see the Joker, sitting in his cell waiting for some guard to walk in only to attempt to stab out his eyes with a spoon. He couldn't wait to meet **that** piece of work.

He was pleasantly surprised when the line approached a small table, lined with, guess what, Styrofoam cups. Each uniformly white container was full with varying degrees of water, in varying shades. He quickly noticed that all the more clear ones were quickly disappearing and snatched one from under the arm of the man in front of him. He needed something to moisten the desert in his throat, and something to help wash down the slop they called food. If the eye-watering smell wasn't enough, the taste might just kill him.

He sat at the furthest table from the line, eagerly taking in his fellow inmates. Slowly as the line grew shorter the tables began to fill, and the Meister felt he was no closer to discovering anything of value. Despite his infamy outside of Arkham, inside he seemed to be just another patient, as no one even spared him a glance. They dug into their food with fervor, their faces relaxing as they did so. How odd. He took a sip of his drink, and would've screamed had he been able. The cool water burned all the way down, acting more like a potent cognac rather than the refresher it should have been. If only it had the same numbing effect. Throat thoroughly burning, he spared his meal a glance and for measure a sniff. He could only imagine what part of an animal the meal had come from, because nothing he had ever heard of could possibly be this _disgusting_, but he hadn't eaten in days and he needed to fill the gaps forming in his stomach before he keeled.He shuddered, and with caution to rival a tesla coil player, he stuck a sizable mass into his mouth.

His goal had originally been to swallow immediately before the awful taste could affect his taste buds, but sadly this did not happen. He managed much to his happiness to get half of the glob down, before the cataclysmic sense that was taste kicked in and he found himself gagging across his tray. It tasted faintly of chum going in and coming out. Pieces of what he prayed were meat stuck in between his teeth and his gap, clinging to his taste buds like they were made of glue. Much to his chagrin he had to demean himself to picking at the wedged pieces with his tongue and nails. As he worked on relieving the dry, powdery taste he noticed something peculiar. The burning in his throat had diminished. In fact, his entire body felt…_good._ Numb even. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidly, and testily swallowed a small portion. He expected the same feeling the water had awarded him, but once he swallowed he was awarded with a numbing sensation as the mass slid down his esophagus. Eyes tearing at the taste the Meister looked upon his inmates in marginally worse sight, (It was already bad to begin with) and was enlightened. Every inmate or 'patient' appeared to suffer from an affliction, whether it was a broken bone or a collection of bruises. The dryness in the food was the where the pill had been ground in. They were being medicated as they ate; probably unaware that they were slowly becoming addicted to their meals despite the fact it looked like something a cat would cough up. As that dawned upon him, the Meister happened to look up and realized that several of the guards were watching him, waiting for him to continue eating. As obviously as possible he took a large spoonful and swallowed it down, taking a swig of water for effect. The guards seemed contented and returned to their patrol, searching for anyone signs of disobedience among the men.

As good as it felt to have his soreness lifted; he knew he couldn't risk getting addicted to any medications while imprisoned. He didn't want to spend his escape from Arkham trying to get over the symptoms of not having meds. He needed to wean himself before he got started. He pondered how he could possibly smuggle this much food off his tray when he felt the table rock slightly with added weight. As he looked up he forced himself not to cringe at the monstrosity before him. A man, or at least the remnants of one, stared back, picking his teeth with his claws. Large scales seemed to be painfully sprouting from his skin, and he had the distinct smell of rot about him. Killer Croc.

"Eh, you gonna eat that _petit?"_ Grinding his teeth at the degrading insult the Meister hurriedly glanced upward. No guards were watching. _Maybe he could use this to his advantage._ Putting on as charming of a smile as possible, he shook his head and pushed the tray to the monstrous man. He grinned and dropped his head low to the tray, scooping the morsels into his mouth with his clawed hands like it was gourmet cooking. To him, it probably was.

"You don't talk much do ya?" he asked in-between mouthfuls.

The Meister grinned as he watched the fellow eat, steepling his hands and resting his head atop.

"_Not to idiots like you big boy, go ahead, eat up."_

_~O~_

A big shout out to**: Erik-is-my-angel1234**, thanks so much for your review, you actually inspired me to start this the same day I posted Chp. 4! :) I only now got around to posting it now so I hope you enjoyed it!

**horsewhisper3**: Thank you for the support, I really appreciate it and I love your stories! I'm doing my best to sort of flesh out the Music Meister as more of a man rather than a one-shot super villain, so I'm kind of figuring it out as I work him along. :)

**SirisAnkh:** I woke up sick this morning and when I logged in your review was the first I read, Thank you so much for the compliments and for letting me know how I was doing. Your feedback was wonderful!

On another note, did you guys see Adele sing Skyfall? Whoo, talk about talent! For anyone reading this, guess what?! I'll give you a hint as to what happens in the next chapter…it was inspired by Adele's performance. ;) P.s. Did you Tesla coils are one of the most dangerous 'musical' instruments?

**Reviewers! Thank you so much for your reviews,**__I woke up sick this morning and seeing I had such lovely feedback made my morning! **Please continue to let me know what you think!**


	6. Adrift in Dreams

Lillith let the water run down her face, not caring that she was technically wasting water and running up her bill. She needed this. The warm water loosened her muscles, and for as long as she was under that stream of warmth she was care-free. No bills, no problems, no annoying jobs. She turned off the water with a **shrunk**, leaning against the adjacent wall for support. She was having one of those days were she only wanted to stay home, eat peanut butter chip ice cream and read cheesy poetry. It was downright mind-numbing, and she'd have to go to work later-

**DDDRRRRING!**

Lillith started with a yelp, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her chest. Slipping slightly on the smooth wood floor she ran down the hallway and skidded to a halt by the phone, securing her towel with her hands and balancing the phone by her ear with her shoulder.

"Hello, who is-"

"WHERE are you?!"

"Frank?!" Lillith sputtered in surprise at the sound of her boss on the other line, unknowingly clenching her towel in her fist.

"_No_ _shit, sweetheart…_where are ya? Why ain't cha here yet?" Lillith growled admonished at his rude tone and forced herself not to respond half as harshly. She didn't need to lose her only job.

"What are you talking about? I don't start work until 7:00…?"

"What, didn't you watch the news this morning?!" Lillith started to respond but was cut off before she could form a syllable.

"Look, last night after you left, _Edward Worthington, the bloody third _ showed up, talkin' about how when his dad was a kid Jones and Viette Bar was the hippest place in town. He said he wanted to have the place set up real nice for his dads eightieth' and that he'd pay BIG money to have it for the night."

"Let me guess, you told him yes?" Lillith rolled her eyes, trying to imagine some of Gotham's finest all squeezed together in a tiny sweaty room that smelt vaguely of feet and cigarettes.

"Ya got it, hon' and guess whose da live entertainment? YOU! So get your arse into somethin' nice and get over here!" Everything was suddenly moving at a thousand miles per hour and Lillith couldn't even manage to stutter a reply before he hung up. She placed the phone back on its rack and slid down the side of the wall. Bringing her knees up and resting her head in her lap she laughed. She couldn't believe it, Gotham's finest and SHE'D be performing for them...this was her big chance! If one of them liked her singing enough she could be set up for life! This was going to be the best night of her life, all she had to do was show up, sing and play her heart out and everything would be alright-wait. She looked at the fuzzy purple towel she had wrapped herself in and blushed. She couldn't show up in a towel, she needed a dress! Without further ado, she rushed to her bedroom, swinging open her closet doors and peering into her assortment of clothes. With a frown she pulled out her two best dresses and laid them across her mattress. Both were in a decent shape, but not quite the high class look she needed. Of the two the worn blue was the nicer, but had a tear in the seam. She didn't want to be worrying if the skirt of her dress was about to rip off while she was on stage. The other, a faded pink was in far better condition, but more casual than formal. She needed a dress. With a huff of air she lifted her mattress and pulled out twenty dollars from her savings. Taking a garbage bag she hung her two dresses on hangers and pulled it over them to protect them from any obstacles she might meet on her way to the store. Knowing Gotham it wouldn't be surprising to have a car drive by and splash her with mud, or for the sky to suddenly open up and unleash a wave of rain. Slipping on a tee and a pair of jean capris she stuck the money in her pocket and made a bee line for her favorite vintage store. The clothes were good and the price was inexpensive. She only hoped she would have enough.

~O~

She reached the store surprisingly whole, and entering was greeted by the tinkling of a bell. The entire room was dark, and the light that streamed in through the windows revealed all the dust that floated about the room, giving it an eerie quality. Though everything remained deathly still, an elderly woman looked up from her book at the cash register and smiled when she recognized Lillith.

"Hey," Lillith panted, she walked to the counter and pulled the dresses onto the table. "I was wondering if I could use these two dresses as a part of my payment for a new one." The lady nodded in understanding and with a smile began to appraise them.

"I can do a hundred and twenty for both, dear. Will that be enough?" Lillith nodded in appreciation and smiled.

"Yes, that would be lovely! I have an important event tonight and I need something a bit more formal but within my price range." The women nodded again and pulled a wispy white strand back into her loose bun.

"Of course, let me help you find something you'll like." Like many times before Lillith followed the seamstress to the back of the store, where she kept the more petite styles.

"Anything in particular Miss?" Lillith shook her head and stood still as the woman began to compare her with different styles, when a flash of sparkling black caught her eye.

"Can I see that one?" she asked excitedly. The women seemed surprised, but obliged, pulling out a mass of glistening black velvet from the shelf. She unfolded it and holding it up Lillith gasped. It was beautiful, likely the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. The black velvet appeared to be embedded with tiny diamond like crystals, which caught the dim light in the room and sparkled. A long slit came up the side and the top, though strapless, had two sheer scarf like sleeves that draped off either side. There was even a tiny broach of a nightingale; its graceful legs made of diamond and its eye a shiny black pearl.

The woman was kind enough to assist Lillith with trying the dress on, even showing her how to tie up the back. As Lillith looked into the mirror she could feel herself beaming, practically glowing with pride. The dress clung to her figure prettily and contrasted with her milky skin, making her look more elegant than she ever had.

She paid for the dress using her other dresses and a little extra money from her savings, but felt it was worth it. The dress wrapped securely in a tough, thick paper she jogged home, eager to start preparing.

She pulled her hair, still moist from her shower, into a bun and began to work on her appearance. She stripped and changed into a more suited pair of undergarments and lotioned her entire body in a in a sweet smelling cream, giving her skin a soft, supple appearance. Next she made sure her nails were devoid of any dirt before coating them in a clear gloss of polish, hoping that no one would notice or care about her nails unmanicured state. But, then again you never know with rich people.

Lillith had never been an expert with makeup but she managed to give her eyes a smoky look and darken her lashes with mascara, leaving her lips and cheeks a natural shade of pink. She slipped on her dress and tightened the back, causing the heavy fabric to cling about her. Unpinning her bun she shook her now curly hair loose and using the broach from her dress she managed to use maneuver it into a makeshift pin to hold back some of her silky locks. Content with what she had accomplished, Lillith turned to admire herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a whole new person. She let out a calming breath, and flicked the light to her bathroom off. She slipped on a pair of black heels and exited her apartment, hailing a cab as she did so. She was in a dream world, some opposite reality. She would never feel this graceful or beautiful in Gotham. No, she was a princess in a chariot, being carried to her kingdom; all she needed was a dashing prince.

~O~

**Miyux**: Thanks so very much for the review, I hope I have sated you excitement for now. ;) ( I'm actually really sick while righting this so I hope it sounded okay!) :) More action with the Meister next chapter!

I actually cut this chapter into half and made it into two separate chapters, just to keep it from getting too long. I don't want it to sound like it's dragging on.

So, last chapter helped the story reach 400 reviews, any of you four hundred readers wanna leave me any comments or feedback? :)

Thanks to everyone! Next chapter should be posted soonish, I have two projects due next week so I really have to put this story down and work on them! Hope you all stay safe and healthy!


	7. Asunder

Gosh, I love writing the MM narcissism. It's so fiendishly annoying. ;) WARNING: to all you hard core fans, MM will have his name revealed in this chapter, I'm afraid. For anyone paying attention you already know what it is!

**SirisAnkh: **I hope you're feeling better, being sick is the worst. 3

**horsewhisper3: **Oooh la la, you must be physic! ;) You are right dear, not all is as it seems…

**shiver14: **Don't worry haha! I have plenty of inspiration for this story, it just might be a bit longer between updates is all. :)

HOLYREVIEWSBATMAN! 13 whole reviews, wow that's the most I've ever had! That's amazing- Thanks so much everyone, I really appreciate it!

-I apologize for my tardiness, I had SOLs, SATS, and Research Paper/ Projects due in all my classes _

~O~

The Music Meister was watching his fellow inmates interact in their semi drugged states, musing over who he could possibly risk forming an alliance with. Killer Croc was already in his hand, and so long as he continued to smile and nod and offer him food the mutated man would act as a negligent bodyguard, frightening anyone away who might mess with his free source of food. He relished in his musing; only stopping when he felt two hands grip his shoulders and the sound of a throat being cleared. He turned and smiled candidly at the two guards watching him, inwardly laughing as they took in his empty tray. If they thought he would be an easy, drugged up mess then they were wrong. He almost dared them to try something, if it was not for his less than desirable condition.

"We're here to _escort_ you to your first therapy session, Mr. Meister." The guard said strictly, recomposing himself.

"Yeah, and no funny business!" The other guard scoffed.

They held their nightsticks at the ready, each grabbing his sides in a steel grip, and he had no doubt that if he wasn't 6'2 the men would've gladly dragged him. He winced as they tugged him down the hallway, his body crying out in protest. There was an odd stiffness settling in his muscles, and though it was uncomfortable he knew it was good. It meant he was healing. He squinted down the hallway, annoyed at the blurred grays and browns he couldn't decipher. One of the guards pierced the silence and the Meister's focus, smirking as he remarked:

"So, I hear you've got quite a voice Mr. Meister." The Meister stiffened at the compliment and almost began to smile with pleasure when the ruffian on his right continued the statement.

"Yeah, you compensating for something? What, your mommy and daddy want a _girl_ when you were born?" The two morons burst into laughter and the Meister felt his face turn hot with rage and humiliation.

_**IdioticToneDeafFILTHY-**_

Suddenly they ceased their boisterous laughter, and shoving him forward one guard dragged an ID card across a nearby door lock.

"Tell the doc we said 'ello." The shorter men mumbled. They pushed him forward into the room, and he felt the soft _whoosh_ of air as the steel door sealed shut behind him. _That was…strange._ The room was surprisingly small and painted a stark white, and the only furniture to speak of was a desk centered in the middle of the room, with a rich brown leather chair and a faded persimmon fainting couch against the adjacent wall. Briefly he considered if the acoustics were any good.

He focused his eyes to the best of his ability on the man sitting in the center of the room, having stood from the comfortable brown leather chair, and felt an unusual chill run down his spine. The doctor stood shorter than him, but was wider, more muscular. His head was slightly lopsided and accented with bushy grey eyebrows and a thick well groomed beard. His eyes were completely blocked by a pair of bottle cap glasses, and he felt a shred of jealousy despite the man's disturbing features. He would have a migraine with all the squinting he was doing. The doctor grinned portentously and held out his hand in greeting.

"Welcome to Arkham Mr. Meister,** I** am **Doctor Hugo Strange**."

_Strange indeed._

The Meister nodded, and gripped the man's hand in a firm shake. Dr. Strange's hand wrapped around his own far too enthusiastically, the man's crooked digits twisting his palm so that his scarred fingers and knuckles faced up. He grinned and the Meister felt his face go white with shock.

"Ah," he examined the white crisscrosses with fervor, his eyes practically burning holes through the bruised appendages. "Such interesting scars Mr. Meister. I first noticed them when they wheeled you in to the Infirmary; you were a _very _interesting patient, so…_lucid_ even with the anesthesia. Tell me; is that collar around your neck satisfactory?" he chuckled darkly, his opaque glasses flashing before he continued. "It took quite a bit of research on my part to develop a method to effectively silence your peculiar ability without simply cutting out your vocal cords…but I think I was fairly successful, don't you?" The rhetorical question rang in the Meister's ears, accentuated by Dr. Strange's heavy baritone. He jerked his hand out of the other man's grasp with a girn, his face contorting with resentment. The doctor found this highly amusing, his thin lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth. Never before had the Meister wanted to see another person's eyes so badly, as if this small revelation would prove the man before him was in fact human and not his own personal demon sent to drag out every last bad memory he had spent so much time carefully burying.

The man composed himself, all traces of bemusement gone and motioned to the solid chair in front of his desk. "Please, take a seat." His voice was practically a growl. The Meister did as he was told, unnerved. He could say with the upmost honesty he had never heard such a simple phrase used so threateningly, as if at any moment the man would snap and attempt to strangle him over the desk.

The Music Meister had a feeling that this man could do far worse.

Strange sat down, the leather squeaking with the added weight, and gazed at the Meister for several moments. The Music Meister shifted in his chair, trying not to look as bothered as he felt. The man was analyzing him intensely, virtually staring him down. He could feel his eyes passing through him, nit-picking at his every flaw, a sharp beak pulling and tugging his secrets from their secure cocoons. A white flash across the man's glasses signaled his movement, and he reached for a blurred shape on his desk, pouring out the substance into a small white rectangle. The Meister squinted, and his sight cleared to reveal a generic paper cup, the edge rimmed with a standard blue pattern now sitting by the end of the desk.

"Tea?" A thick hand gestured to the paper receptacle. The Music Meister moved his head to reject the man's offer, but Strange continued before he finished the motion. "You'll find it will soothe your larynx." With quiet resolution he reached for the cup, sipping the warm brew before swallowing half. It was good. Really good. He took another sip, inwardly sighing as the soreness of his throat loosened.

"So Mr. Meister, let's take a look at your file." Strange continued, a white and beige blur against the white wall and reptilian leather chair. He retrieved a file from his clipboard, and opened it to reveal the contents. "We had to perform a DNA test in order to track down all your information; you're a long way from home_, aren't you_?" Strange's tone dipped down dangerously, and he leaned over his desk to get a clearer look at his patient. The Meister had settled into the stained permission couch, clutching his tea with two hands. Grey steam drifted up to warm his face, and though Strange's manner should have bothered him he couldn't bring himself to care. Strange nodded thoughtfully to himself, and returned to his chair.

"Full name: Alexzander Ceol Miehster, age 28, height 6'2," he paused. "I assume that is correct." The Meister nodded, sipping his tea uneasily. He hadn't heard his name in years, and the sound of it from the Doctors venomous voice made his stomach churn. He ran a hand through his red locks, pushing them from his eyes. The hair curled back under his ears, tickling his neck. He needed a haircut soon, he thought absentmindedly.

Strange marked several boxes on the paper and continued, leaning back into his seat.

"Lived and attended school at St. Peters Catholic Schooling in Germany until the age of 18…in which case your file goes blank Mr. Miehster. Would you care to elaborate?" The bottle cap glasses flashed, and Alexzander turned his gaze down to the paper cup clutched in his fingers. It was empty. Strange's scrutiny dropped to the cup, and a dark smile graced his lips.

"It's quite good, isn't it? The tea?" Alexzander nodded shakily, licking his lips. He felt…different, as if his actions were delayed. Strange stood with a smirk, walking to the front of his desk before leaning against it. "That tea," he continued thoughtfully, "was made by one of our patients here at Arkham, a Mr_. Jervis Tetch_." Strange leaned closer, dragging out the name "Tetch" between his teeth. "He, like you, has a peculiar talent for mind control," he chuckled with sick glee, "a talent I have adapted to a liquid formula," The Music Meister felt the paper cup slip through his fingers and fall to the unblemished floor, denting the thin paper into an thin oblong shape. He could feel his body shaking, like tiny spasms and tremors through his muscles, and he gripped the sofa arms until his knuckles turned white.

"Now, Mr. Meihster, you are going to tell me…_everthing._"

~O~

GAIS. GAIS. PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE tell me what you think about his name. :) I thought it suited him, but I hate having to name a canon character.

Leave me a review or PM! :D I won't bite~

Next Chapter: we see how Lil' is doing and the Music Meister becomes acquainted with Lillith's voice ;)

If you have any ideas on how I can improve my writing please let me know


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